Archives

All posts for the month October, 2013

This weekend, I slept and slept and slept. I feel guilty for being so wildly unproductive, but I rationalize the guilt away by consoling myself with the fact that I’ll be supremely busy next weekend. Still, I feel sheepish because I should be writing. That being said, I did finish this week’s writing prompt, so that is something to be proud of.

Tuesday, October 15th, at 7:00PM at Manchester Branch of Ocean County Library is my first author event. I am nervous and honestly terrified no one will show up and I’ll be laughed at. That may not be a rational fear, exactly, but I’m sure it’s common for young authors. Wish me luck.

WEEKLY WRITING PROMPT #4: “Let go. You can trust me.”

Were Jayme ever asked how she came to be in the current position she was in, she did not believe that she would ever have an answer. Jayme was fully convinced that life has an increasingly bizarre way of leaving one stranded, that the cosmos would arrange themselves to simply screw with unsuspecting human beings. At this very moment, she was just such a victim as she was unable to pinpoint or adequately describe what had led her to the rooftop of an impressive building in the heart of Manhattan, cold concrete scratching at the back of her bare calves as she was backed up against the ultimate age. The wind whipped viciously, strands of hair stinging the sensitive skin it lashed, and she was bent at an outrageously uncomfortable angle, nearly a perfect ninety degrees backwards, so that her back was not guarded by anything and would meet the sidewalk with a sickening sort of splat if (when?) she fell. The only reason she had not met her demise via the concrete and asphalt and impact was because she was clinging in a clichéd, desperate manner to the rough and calloused hands of a man.

The man was not someone she knew or had even seen before. All Jayme remembered was that she had been returning from lunch, from some trendy restaurant just a few blocks away, and had been doing her utmost to return to the office on time. She had her elbows discreetly perpendicular to her sides, creating space among the masses to walk a clearer path and thereby proceed faster. She had been only a door or two away from the impressive building which housed the publishing firm she worked tirelessly for when the man had stopped her. He had a winning, charming smile and no pamphlet to hand over, which Jayme thought confirmed his credibility of being sane, normal, and rational. Upon reflection, however, Jayme did note that his hair had been messy and askew, which should have been a sign that something was off. And, the more she thought about it, the intense lines should have been a sign as well because although the features of his face were clearly defined with bold lines, everything inside was something sort of fuzzy because it was ever changing. It was possibly indicative of his inability to complete a thought, or to be anything other than clinically insane. But Jayme had not had these misgivings when it mattered, so when the man asked her why she was in such a rush, she had stopped long enough to smile and explain her lunch hour was rapidly drawing to a close and she did not want to be late.

His eyebrows shifted slightly to display his confusion. “You’re rushing to get back to work?”

Jayme had laughed to display her own confusing at his confusion. “It’s not that uncommon; conscientious workers often do their best not to be late.” No longer intrigued or entertained, she made to step around him and continue on, chalking up the encounter to nothing more than a crazy New York story that happened so often, really, that crazy became a misnomer; it was normal.

He had stopped her with a strong and steadying hand on her arm. It had not been a threatening gesture, but it certainly was not what she had been expecting. She looked up at him with squinted eyes and parted lips, anxious to ask many questions. He said, “Don’t you think you should be rushing towards something else, something worthwhile and everlasting?”

Jayme knew she should resist any desire whatsoever to engage him in conversation because she knew he was only spouting so much existential hoopla. She could not help herself, though. Maybe it was something is his eyes, dark and wild and free, or maybe it truly was what he was talking about, the opportunity to do something out of the ordinary which could be incredibly meaningful and life-altering. So Jayme asked, “Like what?”

“Come with me and I’ll show you,” he said. He took her hand in his and began to lead her. Jayme could have planted her feet, could have resisted and been dragged, could have screamed for help. But she was helpless against the romanticism of it all; a handsome stranger urging her to make her day count. What if there was some invaluable lesson to be learned, something beautifully optimistic that she could then pass on? What if this truly was one of those moments that mark the end of the mundane and the beginning of fulfillment? So Jayme willingly followed him into the building they had stopped in front of. She went with him onto the elevator and had been slightly disappointed when they rode it all the way to the stop. There was something predictable and cheesy about it. Was this some kind of lame, extended metaphor? Because if it was, she truly did not have time for such anti-climactic antics. When the soft ding sounded their arrival, and the metallic doors slid open, the strange man led her out into the hallway and to their immediate left. Her curiosity was turning to impatience, and that quickly transformed into apprehension when she realized they were about to burst through the door clearly labeled roof access. Her steps started to stutter and she began to verbally express her doubt and her fear.

“Hey now, wait a minute; where are we going?” He did not answer and Jayme was not surprised but she was not deterred, either. She continued her chain of questions, her self-soothing rambling. “I do not want to go up on the roof. Let me go now, seriously. I’ll start screaming if you don’t stop and then you’ll be in a world of trouble. The cops will be here so fast, your head will spin, I promise.”

Jayme’s questions were unheeded and the progress was not impeded. When he met the door, he kicked it in. Was he terribly strong, or was the door terribly old, with rusted hinges and weak joints and whatnot? She hoped the latter proved to be true. They stepped through the doorway into the dazzling, blinding sunlight and he abruptly turned to face her. He took her by the shoulders, firm but not threatening, and pushed her backwards. Jayme was now terrified and she was screaming, twisting her head left and right to try and see where he wanted her final destination to be. She tried to resist, tried to move against him, but he was so strong and she was so scared that coordinating her weak and trembling muscles with any kind of directive thought proved exceedingly difficult. He pushed her until he had backed her up against the edge, until there was literally nowhere else to go but over, and then hurtle towards death.

He grabbed her hands in his in a painful grip and pushed against her until she had no other option but to lean back. Jayme was leaning back over the busy, city street below, freely screaming and crying and waiting for the inevitable end. The wind whipped and the traffic sounded farther than it actually was. Her ears felt as if they were filled with cotton and her mouth had gone dry, despite the streaming tears and snot slowly beginning to leak out of her nose. There was nothing pretty or glamorous about facing death. She was snotty and sweaty and pleading just like anyone else would be. Jayme closed her eyes and shut her mouth, realizing that reasoning was futile because one could not talk to a lunatic like a normal human being. Moments that stretched forever passed.

Then Jayme felt hot breath against her ear. “Let go. You can trust me.”

Jayme’s eyes shot open. The shock had sobered her up and brought her back into the actual moment rather than the fear of the future. He was smiling so kindly, but clearly his intentions were not good. If she let go, she would die, plummet to her death and become nothing more than smashed and splattered guts and bones and blood on the sidewalk. How could he ask this of her with so gentle a smile? What was this madness?

OCEAN COUNTY LIBRARY

Connecting People … Building Community

PRESS RELEASE

CONTACT: Maria Colon, 732.657.7600 Ext. 4524

mcolon@theoceancountylibrary.org

MANCHESTER BRANCH LIBRARY TO HOST

BOOK TALK BY LOCAL TEACHER/NOVELIST

MANCHESTER, NJ – Local author, Mandi Bean will be on hand at the Manchester Branch Library on Tuesday, October 15 starting at 7:00 pm to talk about her novel, Her Beautiful Monster, published last year. This author’s first book, a thriller, tells the story of a young woman who is obsessed with romance and finding the perfect man for her. After she meets him, he gets murdered. In the midst of the emotional tailspin that ensues, her world changes, and she enters into a struggle in which must discover the truth about herself and those around her in order to save her life, her heart and her sanity. Copies will be available at the event for purchase and signing. Mandi is an alumnus of Manchester Township High School where she now teaches English.

The older I grow, the more I believe that life truly does have a rather funny way of helping one out. I am fortunate enough to find myself in winning situations more often than not. For example, my dad offered to take me to see a film and then out to eat on Friday night. My little brother came along, and we saw “Runner Runner” with Justin Timberlake and Ben Affleck. The movie was thoroughly entertaining (and I found Ben Affleck to be particularly engaging … and handsome) and as we were walking out of the theater, we were all intrigued by a small crowd outside. They were all females; seven teenagers and two middle-aged women. Dad, being the ultimate nosey body, asked what was up, and one of the women admitted they were in a bit of a pickle. Apparently, the women had dinner plans and purchased tickets for the teenagers to see “Prisoners.” However, because the movie was rated R, the employee who had sold the tickets insisted an adult over twenty-one years of age accompany the girls for the duration of the film and assured the women there would be a theater check conducted to prevent any kind of circumvention. Dad started laughing because I had in fact argued for seeing “Prisoners,” even though he had already seen it with my little brother a week or so ago. There I was, offered an opportunity to see a movie I was very anxious to see, for free. It isn’t a cosmically epic moment that decides the fates of nations or anything as brilliant, but it is a moment nonetheless. It is also the kind of moment that is readily and often attainable. I wonder if I shouldn’t chase small smile moments such as those, rather than scenes from silver screens.

I know I’ll chase both.

WEEKLY PROMPT #3: “Four men decide to rob a bank. Two of the men intend to take all of the money, even if it means killing their partners.”

THIEVES

Harvey sat at the end of the emptying bar, a tumbler of warming whiskey before him. He held his face in his hands, calloused palms scratched by the thick, rough bristles of hair coating his jawline and chin. It had been a while since the last time Harvey had shaved, most likely because it had been a while since the last time Harvey had identified any reason to shave. Pride in personal appearance had a tendency to go by the wayside when one found himself unemployed and miserable. It was that exact desperation that had led him here, to this seedy bar. Jeff, a buddy from Harvey’s old job, had stopped by the apartment to see how Harvey was making out. The accumulated trash and lack of even basic maintenance had concerned Jeff, and so he sat Harvey down and shared a detailed yet outrageous plan to rob the local bank. Harvey had scoffed until her saw the serious lines of Jeff’s face pull together in an almost convincing display. Inexplicably outraged, Harvey had leapt to his feet and roared about laws and safety and the improbability of making it out of there alive, let alone with the money. Jeff had persistent, however, and calmed Harvey down and inspired him with a dangerous kind of optimism that only desperate and miserable men are capable of. Thus, Harvey had followed Jeff to the Bar Miraculous to meet with the others, some guys named Ben and Matt that Harvey had never seen before. Ben was big and brawny, an intimidating fellow who seemed to dutifully follow Matt wherever and whenever. Matt was significantly smaller than his counterpart, and to see them seated beside one another at the bar would have made John Steinbeck nostalgic for his ranchers in Soledad.

The men had sat side by side at the bar, four in a row. They rarely, if ever, made eye contact with one another, and they talked out of the sides of their mouths, although Harvey hadn’t said a word. He had only nodded or grunted to show his approval and consent. The plan had been developed mainly by Matt, with Jeff tweaking and augmenting here and there as he seemed to be more familiar with the area and even the employees. The next course of action was to meet at Matt’s apartment in two nights, to case the bank the night before. They would also discuss further details and tighten any and all loose ends; dot the Is and cross the Ts as it were. Suddenly and simply, Matt and Ben had excused themselves and left. Jeff clapped Harvey on the shoulder and headed to the restroom. Thus, Harvey had been left to his own devices, to sit and drink and think. He wasn’t sure how he felt, how truly on board he was. Robbers never got away with it, not even in the movies, and they were not professionals by any stretch of the imagination. They were bums, average Joes who had suffered no great tragedy, but only wanted more than what they had faster than they could acquire it. Planning to rob a bank did not make them some antiheroes or anything as glamorous. It did not make them intelligent or brave. If anything, it defined them as lazy and cruel and dumb, dumb for taking such an absurd risk. They were no Dillinger, seemingly stealing from the rich. They were the poor so they would take and keep for themselves; where was the honor in that? Amidst Harvey’s existential sort of crisis, Jeff returned. There was the familiar clap on the shoulder and groan of the aged, wooden bar stool as Jeff reclaimed his seat.

“So what do you think? How are you feeling?”

Harvey shrugged and took the tumbler before him in his hand. Rather than sip from it, he moved his wrist to swirl the alcohol and he pensively watched the liquid lap against the sides. “I don’t know, man. It’s awfully risky.”

“It is,” Jeff conceded, “but look at us, man. Look at our lives, for Christ’s sake. We work too God damn hard to be this fucking poor.” He drank deeply from the bottle before him. “Shit, they kicked you to the curb. How long do you figure you’ll kick around, practically begging for a job, any job, even if it’s below your pay grade and skill level? What way is that for anyone to live?”

“I agree, you know I do, but –”

“Matt has everything figured out, Harvey. He has it timed to the fucking second, I shit you not. As long as we stick to the time table, we’ll be fine, just about untouchable.” Jeff smiled. “What have you got to lose?”

Harvey was not amused. “Oh, I don’t know; my life? My freedom?” In fact, Harvey was only sarcastic and bitter.

“It’s a solution to a problem,” Jeff persisted. “We need money, so we take money. We’re talking enough to get the hell out of dodge and start over. We can be whoever we want to be. We don’t have to be losers who go home alone night after night in cars that barely start in clothes off the clearance rack.” He looked down at the wooden grain of the countertop of the bar. He lowered his voice. “And if we knock off Matt and Ben, pin it on them and silence them, we can get away scot free.”

Harvey’s eyes went wide. “What?”

“The only thing holding you back is getting caught, right? Of course it is; that makes sense! So let’s eliminate that and we are suddenly completely uninhibited!”

“Stealing is one thing, Jeff, but murder is another. I can’t –”

“You’re going to go all noble on me, really? Do I have to remind you about the office Christmas party? Nancy was all sorts of messed up, but that didn’t stop you from –”

“Shut up,” Harvey said. He had intended it to be a command, but it had been more of a desperate plea. That’s all he was, was desperate. Jeff knew it, and seized upon the opportunity.

“Come on, man. They’re nothing to us. We could be doing the universe a karmic favor. What do you say?”

Harvey looked at himself for a long, long moment in the cracked mirror above the shelves of liquor.